


The Kindly Ones

by Greekhoop



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF
Genre: Ancient History, Early in Canon, Intercrural Sex, M/M, War, Yuletide 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:19:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greekhoop/pseuds/Greekhoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hephaistion watches as Thebes falls and Alexander's star ascends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kindly Ones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Since you, the recipient, specifically asked for Alexander and Hephaistion as historical figures, I tried to give you something a little bit different from the major fictional representations that are out there. I’ve set this story in the aftermath of the [Battle of Chaeronea](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_Of_Chaeronea), which is an episode missing from both Mary Renault’s books and the 2004 movie. Hope you enjoy!

The fires raged all through the afternoon and into evening. From the encampment on the ridge above the city only the smoke could be seen, like the plumes from great burnt offerings drifting towards the heavens. Offerings of flesh and libations of blood, he thought with a bitterness that was new, sharp, and it surprised him.

It was autumn and the twilight lasted a long time. At last, night fell, mercifully, and took the pillars of smoke from sight. Hephaistion watched until they had vanished into the coming darkness, then he watched a little longer still, as if not sure where the reality of the fires ended and his imagination took up. He could see them even with his eyes shut. He could see many troubling things imprinted upon the darkness behind his closed lids. Even now, the sky above Thebes was distorted by the glow of the dwindling flames, like the coming of a sickly yellow dawn.

The first stars had begun to come out before Hephaistion started back. The way was nearly dark now, but he went on without fear or hesitation, even when the path passed very close to the steep drop-off above the Enclosure of Iolaus. He felt steady in his own body, sure-footed and confident, as if his body were the horse and his will the rider, ever with a firm hand upon the reign.

It’s because I have killed men today, Hephaistion thought, rather senselessly and melodramatically, for those men were far from the first he had ever killed.

Though he was not yet twenty, warfare had already become familiar and routine to him. He had started when he was young enough that any misgivings he might have had over the slaying of a man had exhausted their fury before he was old enough to make much of a coherent philosophy out of them.

In war, Hephaistion went where he was told, pointed his lance and swung his sword in the direction that was indicated. That was all. Sometimes, when it was Alexander pointing the way, he was even glad to do it. However, he had no ear for the poetry of slaughter: the severing of limbs, the cries of men and horses, the way the thirsty earth gorged itself on their blood.

Though Hephaistion was not Macedonian by birth, he did not share the stubborn in-born need of his Athenian forbearers to remain ever in a state of rebellion against and insouciant questioning of authority. He had seen what became of men who came down defiantly on the wrong side of public opinion.

Hephaistion did not bring up his father often, and he felt certain that most people had forgotten the story entirely by now, though he was equally sure that there were some who had known it all along. Hephaistion’s father Amyntor had spoken in favor of Philip ten years previous, and the Athenian nobility had seen that he suffered for his treasonous ways. Steadily, inexorably, his holdings in the city had been depleted. Facing ruin, he had moved his household to the countryside near Colonus, where the Eumenides dwelled.

There, Hephaistion had lived in quiet, constant terror of the Eumenides for the better part of his childhood. He had seen every small infraction, every careless childish error – the clay pot he had broken, the kid goat that had been lost while under his care – as an oath broken, a betrayal of trust that had been placed in him. One day, he had been sure, the balance would tip and they would come for him.

Though the Sacred Grove was quiet and peaceful, he did not trust it. He became convinced that if he ever set foot inside, he would be beset immediately by shrieking shadows, and that they would use their nails like the claws of beasts and not stop until nothing remained of him but his tunic and his sandals and perhaps a few clumps of matted hair.

Under the resourceful eye of his mother Merope, Hephaistion’s family lived off their dwindling flocks for three years until Hephaistion had come of age and could be presented at the Macedonian court in Pella. It had been a desperate gamble on the part of Amyntor, a vain and grasping attempt to regain some of his old stature, and it had paid off.

Hephaistion was ashamed of having grown up provincial and poor. Aristotle had taught them that even the lowliest of men had the makings of excellence within himself. There ought not to have been any stigma attached to his upbringing, but there was. He was well aware of the things men said.

When Hephaistion arrived back at the camp, he was greeted with merciful quiet. They had taken the bulk of the wounded across the valley to Philip’s encampment on the opposite ridge, and Alexander had only required his commanders and members of the Companion Cavalry to remain on hand. The common soldiers and lower-ranked garrison leaders had all gone down into Thebes to take what was to be had. Hephaistion was surprised at how quickly it had come to pass, from the clash with the allied Theban and Athenian forces, to the storming of the city walls, to the slaughter that had followed. It had only taken a matter of hours. It could have lasted days, weeks, and still he would not have been able to make sense of even a small part of it.

Alexander had crushed the Greek resistance movement. It had been under his father’s command, yes, but the decisive blow had been struck by cavalry under Alexander’s command. Now, no obstacles remained on the road to Asia, and it seemed that Hephaistion could see, as if in a prophecy, a wide, golden, well-kept highway stretching towards the east, at the end of which the Lion Gates of Babylon lay open and unguarded.

That was Alexander’s vision of the future, but Hephaistion felt himself stirred by it as if in fraternal empathy. Yes, Alexander was running though all the parts of his life now; all of his past and all of his future. It was only fitting that they should dream in tandem, should hope and wish and pray and desire and lust as mirrors of each other.

Hephaistion wanted suddenly to see Alexander. The need was so sharp and keen it was almost a physical pain within him. He knew that they were growing too old for such childish whims, that even now people talked about Alexander and his closest companion. Alexander did not seem even to be aware of the gossip, and so Hephaistion affected the same blithe carelessness. He wasn’t going to bring it up first. He was going to hold onto their time together as long as he possibly could.

It made his stomach clench with embarrassment. This love he felt was not _philia_ , the bloodless proper love of two friends. Nor was it _storge_ , the love of family, hedged always in the push and pull of fraternal power struggles, with the shadow of Alexander’s godhood and Hephaistion’s humble upbringing ever hanging over it.

It was _eros_ , sexual. It was passionate and messy, more illusory than the others. Aristotle had called it the love of faith, the love of something beautiful in a person that only the beholder could see.

A few camp fires were still smoldering when Hephaistion returned to the encampment. The guards who had been selected to stand sentry through the night were wrapped up in their cloaks beside them, trying to get a few hours of sleep before they took up their positions. Hephaistion stepped carefully, quietly, amongst them, feeling the heat from the fading fires on his naked legs.

Alexander’s tent was quiet and still, but the light from a lantern seeped out from the crack between the lower edge and the ground. Hephaistion went in without announcing himself, and he found Alexander waiting as if he had expected him.

He was seated at his cedar traveling desk with five open letters at his elbow. The sixth was in his hand, and he did not raise his eyes as Hephaistion came around behind him and bent so that he could read it as well. It was their custom. Hephaistion had implicit rights to all that belonged to Alexander.

 _My dearest Alexander,_ (the letter ran) _When I think of you riding deep into soft, decadent Greek lands with only the hardheaded and unwise man who claims himself as your earthly father, I feel a darkness come over me. Be ever prudent and watchful, and remember that I, your mother, have been your most steadfast ally. Think on this when the time comes for you to take the mantle of King…_

All at once, Alexander folded the parchment over and set the letter down. He did not turn, but he reached back blindly, as if on faith, and touched Hephaistion’s hair with the fingertips of one hand.

“Lady Olympia covets the regency,” Hephaistion said mildly, careful not to let his opinions on the matter enter into the words.

“So she does,” Alexander said.

“What else have the couriers brought for us?”

“Word from Athens. After all that we have done to them, they still resist my father’s command to surrender the traitor Demontheses.”

“They’ll come around,” Hephaistion said. “After all, they have no army with which to resist us.”

“I would like if it did not come to that.” Alexander paused. “Such are my father’s wishes, that is to say.”

“Yes, of course.”

“The Spartan council has written us to.”

“What did they have to say?”

“Nothing of any value. I think they merely want to make it known that they are aware of our movements here. They are not openly defiant, but I detect a certain reticence to swear allegiance in their tone.”

“They’re stubborn, and fiercely proud. They will be slow to come around.”

Alexander’s shoulders moved slightly, a wave of tension winding through his muscles. “Go tell the Spartans that they may lie there, obedient to our laws.”

Hephaistion tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in his throat. His lips peeled back from his teeth in an ugly parody of a smile.

“Oh, Alexander…” he murmured.

“Oh, Hephaistion. O my rider.” Alexander was on his feet suddenly, grabbing Hephaistion by the shoulders before he could back away. He kissed him fiercely, violently, his hands gripping so hard that they cut fresh bruises into Hephaistion’s bruised skin.

Hephaistion caught his breath sharply, but he did not think to protest or rebuff. When Alexander moved, Hephaistion moved with him, bourne before his confident strength, until he felt the back of his legs strike the folding cot and he collapsed upon it.

Alexander came down on top of him, not bothering to cushion their fall in the slightest. The flimsy slats that supported the cot groaned beneath their weight, and the armor on the rack at the foot of the bed clattered brightly. Hephaistion’s breath was driven out of him in a short, choked cough. But it was nothing. It did not even register as pain; they had both had worse wrestling in the gymnasium.

And besides, Hephaistion thought. What was love, without a few bruises to accompany it?

He felt Alexander’s hands rake up his thighs. They slid under the brief skirt of his chiton, and Hephaistion felt them fumbling with the knot of the cloth wrapped around his loins. There was, in his touch, some of the old fumbling desperation of their early youth. It sent a hot thrill of nostalgia though him, but Hephaistion reached down and caught Alexander’s wrists, stilling his hands.

“What’s gotten into you tonight?”

Alexander looked momentarily hurt, but then he relented. He moved up Hephaistion’s body to kiss his mouth. Passionate still, but with none of the Bacchanal wildness of a moment ago.

Hephaistion felt himself drawn up into the kiss, felt his body arching up against Alexander’s, as if he were floating a little above himself. Alexander had moved down to Hephaistion’s throat now, and he was thoughtfully kissing the sensitive curve where his neck bent into his shoulder.

“How long do you think it will be like this, my love?”

Hephaistion did not answer. Even now, with the road to Babylon open before them, he could not think of the future as a real time that would come. It existed as a dream, a shade, unpopulated by men and unshaped by their deeds.

Alexander began to speak again. “My father—“

“Don’t talk to me about your father!” Hephaistion said, his voice rising sharply. “Not now. He will do as he pleases and no one will stop him, but I have come this far based on your words. I have done all this for love of you.”

Hephaistion paused, feeling a strange flush come over his cheeks. Alexander had pushed back up onto his knees and he was looking down at Hephaistion’s face with curiosity. There was no pity in his eyes, but there was no judgment either.

“I’ve killed Athenians,” Hephaistion went on at last, haltingly. “I’ve killed my own countrymen. It is a grievous sin, and one that ought to be punished by the highest authority, beyond even the Gods. The Erinyes themselves. But I don’t care. I would let them hound me to the ends of the earth, only because I know you would already be there, waiting for me.”

He paused, taking a deep breath. Alexander was watching him as if he expected him to say more, but Hephaistion could not think of a single thing to add. It had been a foolish thing to say; it had been nonsense. No one had ever known of Hephaistion’s boyhood terror and fascination with the Grove of the Eumenides. He had not even told Alexander of it.

Hephaistion was ashamed now. He wished he had never said anything, that he had only remained silent and taken, with gratitude, all that Alexander saw fit to give him. Without a word, he began to get up, smoothing his chiton flat over his thighs.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” Alexander said. He touched Hephaistion’s arm, but it was his words more than his hands that arrested Hephaistion where he was.

He let Alexander draw him back, let himself be kissed. He submitted when Alexander pushed him onto his back and crawled over him, this time with a kind of agonizing care, as if Hephaistion had suddenly become very fragile and would shatter with at a careless touch.

Hephaistion made a small noise of protest, but Alexander smothered it in a kiss. Hephaistion did not attempt it again.

With steady hands, he untied the cord around Alexander’s waist and Alexander stripped his tunic off over his head. Hephaistion ran his hands over Alexander’s naked body, fingertips tracing the lean and compact Spartan muscles. There was a cut on Alexander’s arm and a few fingertip-sized bruises on his shoulder; otherwise, he had come away unscathed from the fighting earlier that day. It was not until that moment that Hephaistion realized he had never seen Alexander with a serious wound. Though he was reckless in battle, arrows seemed to turn before striking him and swords clanged uselessly off his armor.

The thought raised a strange and obscure foreboding in Hephaistion’s breast. He clutched Alexander to him and kissed him fiercely, and he dragged his free hand down his body to close around his cock.

“Yes, Hephaistion…” Alexander gasped. Hephaistion stroked him in slow, measured movements, feeling the shaft of Alexander’s cock beginning to grow slick with sweat and pre-come.

Alexander thrust him back, pushing him down onto the bed. Hephaistion was still gripping him tightly enough that he could feel every leap and flutter of Alexander’s pulse. He flexed his fist and Alexander gasped, a shudder passing through him. He guided Alexander’s cock to the tops of his thighs, where the skin was slick, and Alexander arched his hips forward, sliding between his legs.

Hephaistion gasped, tensing the muscles in his thighs, squeezing the hot shaft between them. Alexander arched his hips forward with savage desperation, and Hephaistion felt himself thrown back. Fiercely, recklessly, Alexander thrust into the cusp between Hephaistion’s thighs. His hipbones struck against Hephaistion’s belly, raising first welts, then bruises. The tip of his cock nudged against Hephaistion’s balls. He felt them drawing up taut against his body, felt the old familiar thrill of wanting this, wanting it with abandon.

Alexander reached down between their bodies, taking hold of Hephaistion’s erection and stroking it in time with his thrusts. Hephaistion’s thoughts were in delicious torment; the clash of battle rung in his ears. He could hear once more he bright screams of men, the dull metallic clatter of armor, the wet muted sound of flesh against flesh. It was as if the war was being fought anew within him.

With each touch of Alexander’s rough hands, with each movement of his body, Hephaistion felt his bitterness and shame over what he had said earlier driven out of him. He felt even his memories of poor Thebes, pillaged and in ruins, fading beneath the white haze of pleasure that settled over his mind.

At least they still had this, he thought, not cynically.

He felt a rush of hot dampness between his legs as Alexander came. Hephaistion reached up, stroking his golden waves back from his face. Alexander’s eyes grew thin with concentration and he tightened his grip on Hephaistion’s cock, wringing his orgasm from him. Hephaistion came with a cry, an upward twisting of his body, painting their stomachs and the back of Alexander’s wrist with his seed.

It was at that moment that the tight knot of anxiety and misgiving that had taken root in his chest released. He felt it dissipating, drifting outward from him like a fistful of sand. He closed his eyes and drifted with it for a moment. The visions of horsemen and flames vanished like mirages.

When he opened them again, Alexander was leaning over him, kissing his mouth.

“My love…” he said. His eyes flashed; he seemed to want to speak more, about his father or about Babylon or about the future, but in the end he held his tongue.

Silently, he rose from the bed and retrieved a rag to clean them both off. Then he lay down again. Hephaistion moved into his arms.

At last, he had silence.

~The End


End file.
